The Woes of a Madman's Soul
by The Konfessionist
Summary: A few days have passed since Benny had his first encounter with the Courier in Goodsprings, and his conscience has decided to rear its ugly (and bathed-in-sin) head. The inner workings of the mind of the Chairman of the Tops casino is a dangerous place to be—so dangerous that he wishes he wasn't the one that had to be trapped in there. Rated M for dark themes. Lame title is lame.


**A/N: Hello, all! Shocking to see that I've arisen from the fanfiction-writing grave, hmn? First of all, I'd like to THOROUGHLY apologize for my sudden leaving last year.**

**To explain myself, I felt like I wasn't getting much joy out of fanfiction writing because every time I wrote another chapter for one of my stories, I kept beating myself down and telling myself it was terrible and I should stop writing then and there, and for me that sort of torture wasn't fun to go through every time I had to get back to writing even though I always got positive reviews from you guys. After my long absence, I don't expect many of my readers to think about reading another piece of work from me, because a lot of fanfiction writers up and disappear without finishing stories-and to be completely honest with you, I can't say that I'm going to finish the stories I've started like A Trial of Risk and Fall, Another War for Your Textbooks, Saving Me, or Project Sixx because where these stories are at right now would be a BIG undertaking for me to pick up again, and I honestly don't have the energy or inspiration to do that. So, again, I am so, SO sorry.****  
**

**Second of all, the reason why I'm suddenly back is because I miss being a fanfiction writer. Another reason why I stopped writing was to focus on my original work, but it's not the same as fanfiction writing. I feel fanfiction writing requires less... effort, I suppose. I decided to give another knock at it because I recently picked up Fallout: New Vegas again, and I couldn't help but have a sudden spark of inspiration and decided to put my thoughts to work.**

**After coming into contact with Benny again (as I've played the game several times over-most likely 10 or 11 times), I decided to dissect his character. Unfortunately, what I wrote here isn't my exact portrayal of him (I deem him as a ruthless, conniving, and manipulative SOB), but I thought to myself; "what if he honestly felt some sort of regret or guilt in killing the Courier? What kind of thoughts would run through his head?" And, well, the questions I had are what birthed this!**

_**Summary:** A few days have passed since Benny had his first encounter with the Courier in Goodsprings, and his conscience has decided to rear its ugly (and bathed-in-sin) head. The inner workings of the mind of the Chairman of the Tops casino is a dangerous place to be—so dangerous that he wishes he wasn't the one that had to be trapped in there._**  
**

**So I hope you all enjoy this little one-shot I wrote about Benny wrestling with his inner war with himself and the conscience that he's trying so hard to beat down! Tell me what you think of it as a review or even a private message, because I'd like to hear about what some of you think of the themes or meaning under the piece!**

**Happy reading, happy writing (once again!)**

**~TheKonfessionist**

* * *

Benny cradled the poker chip in his palm, and his fingers toyed with the oversized piece of platinum. He held it up in the waning moonlight of the Mojave desert through his hotel room window, and he had a sudden thought—a sudden pang of conscience.

"_The game was rigged from the start."_

_Yeah, why didn't you just up-chuck your guts and tell that poor bastard __**everything?**__ 'Ya shot him in the head, so why not confess your sins upon a desert corpse?_

He turned away from the window and loosened his tie with his free hand; tugging it from around his neck and let it drop to the floor. Next off was his checkered coat—and once he had shucked it off, he plopped down at one of the stools at his little personal bar. His hands snaked to the buttons of his suit shirt and nipped at the buttons, letting the piece of cloth trail down his arms and flitter to the floor behind him, and looking to the chip in his possession, did he see his tired and buffed exterior in a warped reflection. The wasteland certainly was _not _kind to this New Vegas boy.

_But we weren't always a New Vegas poster child to the Tops casino, were we, Benny-boy? _He smirked lightly to himself in the glint of the chip and placed it down on the bar's wooden top. Reaching over, he picked up his whiskey bottle, uncapped it, and drank straight from the bottle. _'Ya used to be a Boot Rider. Remember those days? Out in the sun, wandering with the guys, and somethin' felt so incomplete inside of you. You didn't have any purpose… But now? You're a big-wig hot-shot with your own damn hotel and casino, and you've got the workings to make an independent New Vegas. You're on the rise, my boy. You're on the up and up... That suave S.O.B. House had Vegas riding on a piece of platinum. I wonder how it feels to be in his shoes— he probably knows he got no cards left to deal when he's got a snake wriggling in his tailpipe._

Once the bottle was detached from his lips and back on the counter in front of him, he began writing a mental letter to his future self; it was something that he did often. It was almost like a ceremony; in a place in his brain he called the 'Quiet Room', where the walls were painted a soothing wine-red color and the only things of note in this room were an exit door, a roll top desk with matching chair, and a filing cabinet. When his mental-self hunched over the roll top desk, fountain pen in hand, paper blank before him, and nothing but time—it was what he did when he needed to think; and when the letter was done being written, his mental-self would turn to the file cabinet at his side, open one of the drawers, fold up the letter (he made it look like something interesting to look like sometimes—once he folded it up to make it look like a dog), and dropped it in before slamming the cabinet shut and walking back out of the Quiet Room to come back to reality.

_Dear future Ben-man,_ the Chairman addressed to himself in a formal tone that made him sound like an arrogant business man. His mental-self chewed on the nib of his fountain pen—trying to think of what to write down to his 'future self' next. _Keep on trucking with that "I ain't a fink" attitude you got rolling on. Maybe one day you'll believe it._

On the roll top desk, next to his hand holding his utensil of inward destruction, did the platinum poker chip appear. He frowned slightly at it in thought, plucked it up, and fingered it carefully; as if he were afraid it would break in his feather touch. He shook his head slightly and put it back down as he tried turning his attention back to his letter.

_The kid should have known he was being watched; we saw him down the road, taking a path around Goodsprings, and we watched him on the last walk he'd ever take. McMurphy went down the hill, all silent-like, came up behind the poor bastard and rapped him on the back of his head with the butt of his pistol. The sorry son of a bitch passed out before he even hit the sand. The next time I looked at the poor sap—__**really**__ looked at him, in the eyes like we were both men in a square deal and he wasn't kneeling in front of Maria like a sorry beggar and pleading for solace and guidance and answers—I popped two rounds to his brain box. He was out before he even hit the sand, then, too. But this time, he wasn't waking up._

Benny's mental-self took a moment to read over the last couple of sentences he had written.

_**Men in a square deal**_

_**Kneeling in front of Maria**_

_**Sorry beggar pleading**_

_**Solace**_

_**Guidance**_

_**Answers**_

_**Two rounds to the brain box**_

_**Hit the sand**_

_**Wasn't waking up**_

Maria was holstered. There was a sly smirk on the Chairmen's. He took the poker chip—and _scene. _No need for an award for this performance, as it was for your viewing pleasure.

He began to write again.

_Everything is so much more simple when you shoot when you're expected to. It's better when you don't question it afterward. Whoever said 'shoot now, ask questions later' was a dumb son of a gun. That kind of talk doesn't work for me, because I don't like to think about shit I shouldn't have to think about because it makes me question my hand in everything. Future Ben-man, make a mental note to only think if the caps rain in at the end in a congratulatory parade and not a spot of blood is on any of them. It'll just get on your hands._

His mental-self rubbed a hand down his face, dropping his fountain pen so it clattered against the chip, and behind his closed eyelids he saw the courier's weather-beaten face looking up at him. Benny read in stories about times way the hell before the bombs dropped about men being executed for small crimes; their head would be lopped off with an axe from a man dressed in black, the executor, like a chef with a raw onion and a cooking knife. The executor would ask the criminal; _"Do you forgive me?"_, and the criminal would say yes or no. Most of the time it was yes, so the guy had something good left to give back to the world before he died.

"_I __**(insert crime here)**__ and I will forgive the man who kills me so I may repent for my sins and enter heaven, and he can repent in his own for murdering me."_

Benny couldn't help but think about his 'light' reading, because it had reminded him of the courier. Upon that hilltop of the Goodsprings cemetery, with the courier knelt down before him—hands bound together in front of him, and he tugged them slightly—before he looked up to his executor with unsurprised eyes. He began to watch everything through the eyes of a third person. Benny wasn't wearing his checkered suit—he was in a black robe, and instead of Maria in his hands he gripped a worn axe.

"_**From where you're kneeling it might seem like an 18-karat run of bad luck…"**_His mouth worded, but in his own eyes he saw other words lingering there; _"Do you forgive me?_"

The criminal courier narrowed his eyes to heated pinpoints and clenched his jaw. His mouth didn't open, but his eyes spoke back; _"I carried a package laced with bloody caps through the Mojave. That is my crime—"_

"_**But the truth is—"**_There was a pause, and Benny was speaking with his eyes again; _"Please, forgive me."_

"_And I do not forgive the man who kills me, because I can see the blood that has slicked his hands and he is much more of a sinner than I."_

"…_**The game was rigged from the start…" **_And the axe swung down upon the criminal courier's neck.

He slowly opened his eyes and picked up his fountain pen again, continuing to write the last paragraph of his letter.

_I'm going to write down a special set of words for you, because I want you to remember them just as clearly as I do right now. You'll never forget that night—courtesy of your hooligan, strapping young self._

The hand of his mental-self began to tremble like a junkie without a fix, and his writing slowly turned into scribbles as his head knew the words but his eyes couldn't read the intelligible lines.

_I aint' a fink—dig?_

Even more scribbling and jagged lines of letters.

_You've made your last delivery, kid. Sorry to get you twisted up in this scene._

But he wasn't sorry at all—and the lack of emotion when he was wielding that axe (Maria) as the poor criminal's executioner made his hand tremble more as the lines began to slowly become shapes with purpose instead of letters.

_From where you're kneeling it might seem like an 18-karat run of bad luck._

The shapes were beginning to take on a face.

_But the truth is…_

It looked like the man he had executed.

_**The game was rigged from the start.**_

The courier gaped back at him with gaping mouth, eyes rolled back into his head, and dark blood letting out of his temple.

_With love, Benny-boy._

Benny's mental-self shakily dropped the fountain pen and breathed deeply, smiling in relief as the letter was done being written and he took the paper and began to fold it up so the courier no longer stared back at him. Fold after fold after fold after fold, in his palm was his letter in the shape of a crow. Momentarily admiring his work, he turned to the cabinet at his side, opened the very top drawer, and dropped the crow-looking letter into it before slowly closing it gently when he usually slammed it shut.

He had gotten all his thoughts out onto paper—let him bleed out through the nib of his pen, but somewhere inside him, he had that unfulfilled feeling again. It was like he was swaying off the path of what his purpose was… But what was it again?

"_An independent New Vegas!"_ He reminded himself aloud with a hearty chuckle. _"Get your head out of your Chairman ass. We got work to do, Benny-boy!"_

Benny had turned to his roll top desk to retrieve the platinum poker chip that had mysteriously materialized at his side and blinked in surprise when he found it to be gone from the top of the desk.

"_What the—?_" He wondered, getting up from the desk and looked around the top carefully; trying to find it. He then got down on his knees and looked underneath it—patting his hand around on the floor of the Quiet Room under the roll top to see if he had maybe dropped it during the aneurism he was having when he was scribbling out the courier's cadaver expression. That was when the file cabinet suddenly jolted at his side with an alarming noise, and he hit the back of his head on the underside of his desk when he lurched in surprise. Bringing his head back out and getting to his feet, he frowned at the cabinet as it continued to buck and jerk with alarming noises. He reached out cautiously and lightly touched the handle of the very top drawer. The cabinet suddenly stopped moving.

Frowning more to himself in thought with fear threading up and down his spine, he gripped the handle and pulled the drawer slowly open.

A fat, black crow flew out and squawked in his face; causing him to stumble back and collide with his chair so they both toppled over onto the ground. He looked up in horror as the crow settled on top of the cabinet and began to strut around as if it were a peacock and not a mangy bird—pecking and nuzzling under its wing as it cleaned itself.

Benny had no time to react as he watched the bird suddenly lean forward and dip its beak back into the open drawer of the cabinet where it sprang out from. It struggled to retrieve what it wanted from the drawer, and it caused the Chairmen to sit up curiously to watch—and the crow, on its lonesome, slowly pulled out of the cabinet long, black fabric, and began to flap its wings. It flew away to the door of the Quiet Room, where to Benny's horror, he saw another figure standing there. He was no longer alone in the privacy of his own mind.

The fat crow circled the figure; draping it in the black fabric it had brought out of the cabinet around the person so it draped down his shoulders and covered his head and face, like a hood. The crow then perched itself on the figure's shoulder, and squawked loudly to the tune of a clock striking the final hour as the figure raised a hand and slowly pushed back the hood to reveal a familiar weather-beaten face with blood pouring down from his right temple.

The man cloaked in black before Benny was the courier who he had shot and killed. Benny had played executor at this man's funeral, and now the tables were turned as from one of the pockets of the black cloak did the executor courier reveal to the criminal Chairman the platinum poker chip.

"_Do you forgive me?" _He asked as he pocketed the chip, and suddenly pulled forth from the confines of his cloth a gleaming axe.

Benny slowly closed his eyes as he knelt down before his executor; clasping his hands before him in prayer.

"…_I forgive this man who kills me because my crime was killing him first." _The game really was rigged from the start.

The executor courier smiled softly at Benny's words and slowly pulled the hood of his cloth back over his head. Taking the axe, he poised it above his head to strike, and swung it down upon the criminal Chairman.

But that was when Benny opened his eyes, because he heard the bathroom door open and Yes Man wheeled out to look in upon him.

"Benny, sir! You have a visitor in the lobby!" He exclaimed in a chipper voice. "He told Swank that he has a gift for you! Oh, isn't that nice of him? You never get gifts!"

The Chairman exhaled deeply as he tried to recollect his thoughts and smirked lightly to his robotic helper. "Now how'd you know I had a visitor?"

"I occupied one of the securitrons down on the Strip to take an evening stroll when I saw him enter the Tops lobby!" He explained merrily. "You best be getting something decent on to welcome your visitor, sir! Maybe he brought you a carton of those cigarettes you like so much! Or maybe a bottle of that expensive wine from the Ultra-Luxe!"

Benny looked to his hands on the bar and found his, now empty, whiskey bottle in one with the platinum chip clutched tightly in his other. He slowly relaxed his grip on both, dropping them to the counter, and got up from his bar stool with a slightly uneven step. Taking his cigarette pack from his pants pocket, he lit one up to calm his frayed nerves and went to his wardrobe to pull on a clean suit shirt before picking up his trademark checked jacket and tugged it on, buttoning it up then placing a black tie over it.

The last thing he did as he walked to the door, tying his shoes on, was look back to the poker chip he left on the counter as Yes Man rolled back into the bathroom and closed his door behind him. Benny stared thoughtfully at the poker chip, and for a moment, thought of putting it in his pocket to take with him.

_You ain't got an executioner, Benny-boy._ He told himself, almost solemnly, as he forced himself to ignore the chip and exited his room, closing the door behind him as he straightened out his tie and began walking to the elevator. _Much less in the likeness of that courier. A dead man can't be another man's executioner, now, can he?_

He smiled a bit at the thought for whatever reason as he called up the elevator and stepped into it—pressing the button for the bottom floor and as he watched the doors close, his smiled widened and he muttered to himself.

"Ring-a-ding-ding… I got New Vegas on a string."


End file.
